The Tuesday Portrait: Andrea Pirlo

I’ve never seen a highlight video about Andrea Pirlo that didn’t feel wrong somehow. Mostly compilations of free kicks and penalties, mostly set to soundtracks that suggest a lack of confidence in the compiler (“Kiss from a Rose”? Really?), they seem to present not so much Pirlo as the environment of a football match, a busy green day in which players look on, a crowd cheers, the goalkeeper points and shouts, and then, from somewhere—from someone who never quite caught your eye—the ball springs up, does a neat half-corkscrew, and lightly drops into the net. Then the crowd surges to its feet, a roar fills the stadium, and the players rush around someone—only it’s hard to make him out. Maybe a hint of crooked nose, maybe a wisp of feathery hair.

Andrea Pirlo might be the only player in football whose presence negates the idea of the highlight clip. He’s so subtle, so finely tuned, that he seems to become more invisible the more brilliantly he plays, as though football for him were the equivalent of keeping a secret. He moves through the match like the eye of the storm, like a center of low pressure, and is to the complex automation of other footballers like a machine with no moving parts. And his genius for remoteness is such that it turns a highlight reel into nothing more than another bit of noise for him to slip through. Pirlo makes glory look crude.

To capture him, really to capture the way he plays, the camera would have to follow him without the ball, with the ball not even in the frame. It would have to show the way he drifts and watches, judges and glides, the way he moves as if movement were thinking. If would have to show the angles as the angles appeared to him, and to him alone of everyone watching the match. It would have to show openings three seconds, four seconds, before they opened. And then, perhaps, as he backed into a defender and slipped free, the ball could roll into the picture, and he could pause over it, hover for a beat, and make the astonishing pass while all eyes in the stadium were turned toward the run of the striker.

The camera wouldn’t need to show the goal. By the time he made the pass, the goal would already have happened. It would just be a few more seconds before anyone else could see it.

That moment you describe, the one where he pauses over the ball, just before deciding where to spray it, is one of football’s biggest highs for me. Some of Pirlo’s strengths are also his weaknesses. He’s not really tougher than he looks, and Milan would probably not struggle so much for lack of space were he fast or strong enough to slip the chokehold of opposing defences. And yet that secret, unassuming football-as-an-afterthought quality to his game is exactly why the Milan midfield is practically built around him.

Terrific writing; I’ve come to marvel at practically every piece I’ve been reading at this blog for the last two weeks since I found it [via Pitch Invasion, I think]. Thanks a ton.

“he seems to become more invisible the more brilliantly he plays”. Very well put. That’s the thing about this guy. Whenever I do notice him I think “get into the game you lazy scrote”. I’d like to know the secret he’s keeping.

I have to echo the sentiments of roswitha. You’re becoming a bit of a must read.

There was an interesting interview with Pirlo in the Gazzetta this week where he said that he has adjusted his free kick technique on the basis of things he has learned from world class volleyball players about they put spin on their serves.

He puts a lot of work into that particular aspect of his game, and it shows, though it is much easier for me to appreciate it when he is playing for the Azzurri.

“When the human brain realizes its finality the final seconds it emits dopamine in quantities never before experienced, producing an effect of bliss. At Sam’s Club, the hot dogs are 35 cents cheaper on Sundays but normally cold. Pirlo nutmegged Zidane, but would he drink eggnog for christmas? If I was standing under mistle toe along with him, I am not sure what I would do. I would sweat, but perhaps a wry smile? A blush?”